


Wolves Without Fangs

by thehousewedestroyed



Series: The Real Relationship Was The House We Destroyed Along The Way [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Death Eaters, Fleshing Out Minor Characters With Weird Headcanons, Homophobia, Igor Karkaroff's Quarter Life Crisis, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Vampire!Dolohov, Vampires, first wizarding war, they're bad people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousewedestroyed/pseuds/thehousewedestroyed
Summary: 'Antonin,' you say, the name like burned ash on your tongue.Antonin.It will sound too familiar to them, for you to talk about him by his given name like this. But to you it is now alwaysAntonin: it is the blood pulsing through your veins.
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Igor Karkaroff
Series: The Real Relationship Was The House We Destroyed Along The Way [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/661424
Kudos: 8





	Wolves Without Fangs

**Author's Note:**

> Filed to: things no one asked for.

'Antonin,' you say, the name like burned ash on your tongue. _Antonin._ It will sound too familiar to them, for you to talk about him by his given name like this. But to you it is now always _Antonin_: it is the blood pulsing through your veins. 

No one knows how hard it was for you. You were different from the others, and they made sure you knew it. Only he understood you. You could speak in your mother tongue together. Your English wasn't as good, not at the beginning, and it was a relief to hear him talking in Russian to you, his voice low and rough. He would call you _'Dear Igor,'_ and the others wouldn't hear the warm, affectionate slant to it. 

He was a walking fire. He was your heartbeat pounding in your chest. He was a midnight plunge into an icy lake. He was danger and fascination and sensation rolled up into cold skin that made you warm all over. 

Young and foolish, you wanted him. How couldn't you? Everyone wanted him in their own way, even if you were the only one for whom wanting him was branded _queer,_ hissed and snickered behind your back by the other Death Eaters, even though half of them did the same things you did when the lights were out and they thought no one would know. Hypocrites, all of them. They were drawn in by Antonin too, letting him sleep in their homes, drink their wine, fuck their wives — all with a smile. 

You might have been foolish, but at least you were smarter than they were. You could see when Antonin was draining them dry the same way he would neck a bottle of blood red wine and drink it in one. At least you saw all of him. At least you wanted him not on his terms, but on yours. 

The first time you kissed him, you felt his fangs with your tongue and drew closer into him. You crowded him against a wall in a home that used to be inhabited by a Ministry witch. The witch was now barely more than a smear on the floor downstairs, and you were both alive from the act. You more than Antonin, of course. Antonin still had specks of blood on the skin around his mouth. You licked it up to show him that you could. 

'I want what you have,' you said against his lips. 

'A lot of people want what I have,' Antonin replied in good humour. 'One person in particular would be unhappy if I gave it to you before I gave it to him.' 

You grinned and tangled your fingers through his hair, tugging roughly so you could kiss down his neck. He put his hands on your face and his nails bit into your skin. 'So I only have to wait, then,' you said. 

His mouth was cool and tasted like metal. 

So you were patient. As patient as you could be. 

You felt beautiful and desired whenever you were together, and you wanted to feel that way forever. Sometimes you wondered how much older than you he was. He rarely made insinuations, and sometimes his tales were tall. Sometimes he would make reference to a retreat from Moskow during the Napoleonic Wars and the harsh, frozen winter. Other times, he would imply he was a Musketeer for King Louis XIII. But he looks barely older than you, captured in time like a photograph, never changing. You can be young and wild and cruel and beautiful together. Now. Not forever. You age every day, fading into irrelevance bit by creeping bit. So that is all you want to be:

Bit. 

'Do it,' you said to him, skin pressed to skin like ice and fire. You loved it when you killed together and it turned to passion, blood fueled and frenzied. You were on the floor, showing him you would take him inside you anywhere - bed or dusty dusty hardwood, teeth or cock, artery or arse. You wrapped your legs around his thighs and drove him closer, making him push deeper inside you. He fucked you hard, like a wild animal. 

You turned your neck, grabbed him by the hair and pushed his nose into your skin where your blood was thudding hard in your ears, rabbit-fast. He hadn't fed for days, you were sure of it. You ensured it, destroying victims before he could feed off them, then claiming you just got carried away. 

He groaned against your pulse and licked the sweat off your skin. He growled into your ear. 'You should be afraid.' 

'Of you?' you scoffed. 

'Of the one you fear the most.' 

He bared you to your bones sometimes. It was like a game to him, everything was. Find your weaknesses and prod, prod, prod. 

He was right. You feared _Him_ more than anything else. You feared his fury, his wrath, what he would do to you if he found out you failed him, or double-crossed him. 

But this. _This_ was different. This was power. This was the one thing the Dark Lord didn't have, the one thing he desired and needed. If Antonin gave it to you, you wouldn't need to live in fear anymore. You would no longer be weak. 

'I'm not afraid,' you gasped as he slammed into you so that your body spiked with pleasure and your back scraped across rough floorboards. You dragged your nails down his spine, arched up into his thrusts. You were close, ready to spend yourself warm in the press between your bodies. It was strange that it always made you feel most alive to fuck a dead man. 

He tilted his head and scraped his teeth along your neck. 

_'Ye-es!_ you pleaded. 'Antonin—!' 

'I could drain you dry. It wouldn't be hard to kill you. I've killed people I liked more for less.' 

Fear pulsed through you, sharpening your senses. Condensing into desire. 'Change me, and it can be like this forever. Fresh blood and power, only for us.' 

You felt it then, the sting. Sharp and sudden and then fading as his fangs pierced deeper, turning into just a pleasant ache like being filled. It was happening. _It was happening._ Pleasure overtook you, your fingers clenching in his hair, holding him close to your spilling blood as you spilled on his stomach and yours, your orgasm shattering through your body like it might be the last thing you ever felt. 

He drank. He drank, and shuddered, and came deep inside you as he swallowed down your bitter blood. 

Then he stopped. 

You felt weak. Your head span and your pulse thrummed and blood fell down your neck until you put your hand up to the wound and stemmed the flow. It leaked warm and sticky through your fingers. 'Is it done?' you asked, your voice distant and keenly excited to your ears. 

He laughed and got off the floor, hiking up his trousers and buttoning them as he looked around, scanning for something. He spied what he was looking for: a bright bottle of wine sitting on a side table that hadn't been overturned. He grabbed it and handed it to you. 'Drink that,' he said. 'You'll feel better. And you might want to heal that.'

He never changed you. Which is why you can sit here now — in this trial and in front of this court of wizards who might act powerful, but were powerless to the Dark Lord only months ago, and who are little more than meals to creatures in the darkest hours of the night — and you can say his name without remorse. 

'Who was that, Karkaroff?' Crouch snaps, impatient. 'If you have nothing useful to say—' 

'Antonin,' you repeat. 'Antonin Dolohov.' 

It is fair, really. He could have shared it with you, but he chose not to. In exchange, he can spend his beautiful, young, eternity in a cell. And you… you can age, bitter and alone, in freedom.


End file.
